


Anima Somniare

by rixie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Adorable Bruce Banner, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternative Universe - Dreamscape, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, Multi, Phil Coulson Needs a Hug, Phil Coulson-centric, This fic arrived to the fandom 6 years too late
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2018-10-06 14:26:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10336616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rixie/pseuds/rixie
Summary: Phil Coulson loves his soulmates.Always has, always will.Even if they'll never know that he's their soulmate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 1/Dec/17
> 
> This is just a random fic idea that wouldn't leave me alone. I'm not even really sure where I'm going with this but I know that Bucky will eventually be apart of it (as a soulmate).  
> Also I don't actually know the ages of Marvels characters or how they compare, so I've just made some up. This means Phil is four years older than Tony, five years older than Nat and six years older than Clint and Bruce. Steve was frozen at 31.

Everybody dreams.

There is no ifs or buts about it, no scientific consensus that states otherwise, and especially no person who will admit the opposite.

Every in this life experiences dreams, because that's how souls communicate.

 

* * *

 

Phil Coulson remembers his first dream, at the tender age of seven. Some children experience their first dreams earlier, some much later - Phil was lucky to be considered on the earlier end of the spectrum, which is generally a sign that he was to be the oldest soulmate.

Except, in his dream there was already a man waiting.

Kind of, anyway.

Said man was situated on the ground only a few meters from Phil. When Phil cautiously approached, the man did not move from where he lie, nor did he stir when Phil called out to him.

Phil crouched next to the man, dull grey grass crunching under his feet. He notes that the man was pale of tone and had short blonde hair - at least Phil assumed it was blonde; it's quite hard to tell with this dream being so monochromatic.

_Is this my soulmate?_ Phil wondered nonplussed, _why is he on the ground? Is... Is he dead?_

Phil floundered for a brief moment, unsure how to react, but when he turned back at the man and really looked, he could see the how the mans chest rose and fell slowly with each breath. 

_That's a good sign, right?_

After a few moments of hesitation, Phil reached out to lay a gentle hand on the mans shoulder.

Yet his hand never made contact.

Rather, Phil's whole hand - and part of his wrist too - sunk straight through the mans body as if he was nothing more than a conjured figment of Phil's imagination.

Actually - Phil blinked and looked closer - the man is still completely solid.  
It's _Phil's_  hand and fingers which were semi-translucent.

Phil is the figment.

He stumbled away in shock, clutching his wrist to his chest.  
_This isn't how it's supposed to go_ , Phil thinks somewhat hysterically, because even at the young age of seven he knows that dreams are supposed to be sacred places where soulmates can interact _unhindered_. His parents, nor teachers, had never mentioned an instance where one soulmate could not touch the other.

Phil panics so much that he wakes himself up with a start, leaping out of his bed and running straight to his parents room. It takes his newly awakened parents several minutes to calm the child down, and then another several until he admits what had made him in such a state.  
His parents share a concerned look, promising to book Phil in for an appointment with an Oneirologist as soon as possible.

Phil doesn't get much sleep that night, nor many nights after.

 

* * *

 

Phil's dreams become more frequent after he turns fifteen, and at first he can't quite understand why.

His dreams were always routine up to that point, just Phil and the unmoving blonde man in a vast space of grassy nothing.  
The mans presence didn't scare Phil anymore; not since Phil's Oneirologist had explained how his soulmate was most assuredly a coma patent; one thats chance of awakening was slim at best. It was a rare situation, but not one that others hadn't been through before. His doctor prescribed weekly sessions with a therapist that specialises in lost soulmates, and Phil slowly begins to learn how he can manage his future without the rest of his soul.

But two months after his fifteenth birthday a brunette boy is there when Phil enters his dream.

It's not very rare to have more than one soulmate, but rare enough that Phil is stunned for several seconds until his brain computes exactly what the boy is doing and he jumps into action. 

"Hey!" Phil cries, "Don't touch him!"

The brunette boy doesn't respond. Not even to turn and look as he continues to reach towards the blond man on the grass.

"Are you deaf?" Phil snarks rhetorically, trying to bat the boys hand away. "Doc said not to touch."

Then Phil's whole world seems to stop.  
His hand - which should have connected with the brunette when he made to bat him away - was situated right through the boys arm. His fingers were once again translucent.

Phil snatches his hand back as if burned, staring wide-eyed at the boy.

_That- it..._ His mind stutters, and in his state of shock Phil almost missed the events which next occur.

The brunette lays his hand on the blonde mans shoulder, and it doesn't go through like Phil's do.

"Wake. Up." The boy says, situating each word with a hard push to the blondes shoulder. The mans upper body rocks gently with the movement, but he doesn't otherwise stir.  
The boy pouts, pokes at the mans left cheek with a finger, and then shakes him once more, hard. "Wake uuuuuuuuup."

"Hello?" Phil called out timidly, brave enough to try and touch the brunette again when he doesn't respond. "Can you hear me?"

Phil's whole hand just goes right through the boys back, and the brunette doesn't respond, as of Phil isn't there at all.

Phil spends the rest of his dream trying all manner of things to get the boys attention - jumping, screaming, and even putting his whole arm through the boys face - but nothing works. The boy just continues to poke at the blonde, before settling on the ground in apparent boredom.

Phil wakes crying. Later, he won't tell his parents about the incident, nor his therapist.

He calms himself by deciding to wait. Hoping that perhaps it just isn't time the right time, yet. Soulmates are lovely and wonderful things, but still quite a conundrum when it comes to scientific understanding. Yet, there is one consensus that almost all can agree, and that is that _everything in the dreamscape happens for a reason._

Right?

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, and several dreams, someone else arrives.

It's another boy, and Phil is as delighted as he is confused; daring to hope that this new soulmate might finally break the spell that's keeping him in his ghost-like stasis, but also concerned by the fact he seemingly has three soulmates.

But this boy doesn't notice him either - his eyes briefly skim over the spot where Phil stands, never once focusing.

Though he does notice the other brunette, and the blonde.

The newer boy approaches them slow and cautiously, hunching his shoulders in an attempt to appear smaller.

"Hi?" It's more of a question than a greeting, but it manages to draw the attention of the brunette who leaps up, bounding over to the new boy in puppy-like excitement.

"Hi!" The brunette exclaims, "I'm Tony!"

The new boy smiles shyly, fingering one of his sleeves. "I'm Bruce."

Phil tries to get the boys - Bruce's - attention. He jumps up and down, screams his lungs raw, and even attempts to land a stomach punch.  
As usual, nothing works.

Well, if nothing else, Phil is thankful that the dream didn't hinder his ability to hear the others.

He learns that Tony is eleven and Bruce is nine just from listening to their conversation.  
He also learns of their favourite foods, the cartoons that they enjoy, and other mundane facts. Phil soaks it all up - because as much as it's utterly _agonising_ that he is unable to contribute to this first bonding conversation, he will be forever grateful for this moment.

And if Phil slowly begins to resign himself to the idea that somewhat, somehow, his soul is just too damaged for even his soulmates to accept? Well that's no ones business but his own.

 

* * *

 

Natasha and Clint are next, both arriving in the same dream - which, in itself, accurately sums up their relationship.

Clint is fourteen, with dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, and some impressive biceps for his age. Natasha - Nat, as she likes to be called - is fifteen, with vibrant red hair and a gaze as sharp as knives. Both are gorgeous.

Phil, now at the age of twenty, doesn't even bother to try and get their attention.

He just walks over to his small part of the dreamscape; a gloomy and dying forest, with elongated shadow, thorns, and twisted branches.

The others never come near it. Phil idly wonders if it's because they can't see his dreamscape - like himself - or if they steer clear due the areas somewhat sinister nature.

Phil's heart shatters just a little bit more at each faint sound of laughter that he hears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate the formatting of this chapter but what can ya do.  
> (coincidentally I only just found ao3s 'rich text' option and I have ascendent my body and am now living on an astral plane. My life is so much easier. I'm so dumb.)
> 
> This chapter is slightly shorter than it originally was as I have added a new scene and taken out some. The old scenes will be in the next chapter.

The dream doesn't allow them to give away last names - assumedly to prevent soulmates meeting outside the dreams before it's the right time. 

Even so, it's not hard to work out that Tony is actually Anthony Edward Stark - the genius progeny that's heir to a billion dollar weapons company. He's been in and out of tabloids since he was a young child, after all. 

Phil contemplates going to find him outside of the dream, but quickly abandons the idea.

Soulmates mean nothing without dreamscape interaction - as its literally what makes people soulmates. 

As it is, Phil might as well not be a soulmate at all. 

Hell, maybe he isn't. Maybe he is just someone who's soul got all messed up as a baby and now he is destined to spend his dreams being a creepy spectator. 

It hurts because it's honestly the most logical explanation. 

 

* * *

 

Over the many years, they grow. 

 

For better or for worse, the others get older together. Turning from ruddy cheeked children to gangly teens and then finally into confident adults. 

Tony's parents die, he develops an alcohol addiction. A drug one too, for a brief period of time, until he realises it's been hindering his ability to dream.

Bruce's mother also dies. (His father, who no one ever speaks of, is locked away for life.) 

Clint looks thinner every dream - harsher too, and weary at the world.

Natasha becomes more withdrawn, her smiles never reach her eyes, she freezes at the slightest of loud noises.

The blonde never once stirs.

 

Phil joins the army, and then the Rangers. He uses the decades of therapy to craft a prefect facade; a bland man that cares for nothing of consequence, and is never anyone worthy of remembering. 

 

* * *

 

Slowly colour bleeds into the dream - starting with just the tips of grass blades and blue of water reflection, so slowly that no one even noticed it at first.

Soon only Phil's dreamscape is left dreary and grey.

 

* * *

 

Unsurprisingly, Nat and Clint are the first of the group to meet outside of dreams. 

 

Phil is twenty nine, and quickly making his way through the ranks of the Strategic Homeland Intervention and Logistics Division - or SHIELD for short. 

He has a reputation for being unassuming yet ruthless. Boring but brutal. Subordinate agents call him _soulless_ when they think he can't hear it. 

Phil wonders how they would react if they knew he had been practising dream blocking for years (a highly controversial and - to some - unethical practice of meditation). He rarely dreams now, and when he does he can just hide away in his dreamscape where no one else ever goes. 

Though, Phil will, on rare occasion, give in to the irresistible urge to take comfort in his soulmates presence - usually after a particularly gruelling mission or a long month of training. 

Which is how he finds out about Clint and Nat.

 

It had been a hard week - an agent that Phil had trained with was killed during a mission gone very very wrong. Phil was supposed to be on that mission, in that agents place, but he was allocated another at the last minute. 

Near death experiences were not unusual to Phil after all these years, but something about this one just rubbed him all the wrong way.

 

 _I could have been me. It should have been._ Phil thinks to himself, pulling the blankets over his head and low-key hoping he'll suffocate in the night. 

_It would have been better if it was me._

Phil allows himself one dream. One dream where he can soak up his soulmates love for each other and pretend it's encompassing him as well. Just so he can momentarily forget his dead friend, lying six feet under, with their soulmate naïve waiting for them in a dream.

 

Bruce is already there when the scape materialises before him, puttering about the little garden he is attempting to cultivate. 

While Phil's part of the dream might be dark and sickly, the others have banded together to create a beautiful land, lush and free. A huge tree stands at its centre; bigger than any could realistically be. Wooden bridges and steps twist between its fruit laden branches, joining rooms and balconies together.

It's a tree house. A giant, complex tree house which was Clint's idea originally. A childhood fantasy of his that surprised no one.

Secretly the blonde man rest at its centre, deep within the trees trunk in a room carved especially for him. Safe, protected and untouchable. 

Tony once mentioned he tried to find the blonde in the other world; hiring private detectives to search high and low for a comatose man of his description. 

 

No one even remotely similar was found.

It's almost as tragic as it is fucking strange.

 

Phil watches Bruce for a while, smiling at his endearing curls and his twitching nose, and the way he mumbles to his plants. He's the cutest of the four; with his unassuming demeanour and almost shy personality, but Phil sees the hidden power behind it all.

He doesn't fully under stand it, but he sees it.

Tony arrives next, swinging down from the trees canopy in a way that almost gave Phil a heart attack the first time he saw. (Clint, the little enabler, showed him how to do it.) Tony wraps his arms around Bruce's waist from behind, holding tight when Bruce startles and then ducking away when Bruce swats at him in retaliation.

 

Phil smiles at their antics, even as his chest aches with want. They're both so carefree like this and although Phil knows he will regret stealing this moment later, he can't pull himself to look away.

The two younger soulmates go back and forth; Tony teasingly prodding at Bruce's plants, making as if he is going to uproot the funnier looking ones, and Bruce threatening to wet him with the watering can.

Clint and Nat arrive together just as Bruce is pouring water down the back of a gleeful Tony - who is waving a bent leek around like a trophy. Phil goes from smiling indulgently to immediately on edge, noting the almost desperate way they are holding hands and Natasha's carefully blank face.

"We need to talk." Nat says, and then it all comes spilling out.

 

She talks of an orphan girl who loved ballet, who enduring both an education and indoctrination at the hands of the KGB. A girl who grew up with bullets and and scars and pain, who only had one option and that was to _survive_. A girl who loves the escape of her dreams, even when adults attempted to beat them out of her.

Phil suspected much of what she says, having watched her honed reflexes for years and read SHIELD files depicting a woman of almost identical caliber. She leaves the more brutal things out; the torture, the murders, the Last Test, for which Phil is grateful. Bruce is already looking a little nauseous.

 

She stops, and then Clint starts.

He talks of an orphan boy who's parents died in a drunk driving accident, who learnt to shoot and perform, lest he not eat. A boy who was abandoned by kin and left for dead. A boy who takes hits for money but only on society's scum, and who loves his soulmates with _every fibre_ of who he is.

"Why are you telling us this now?" Bruce udders quietly when Clint finishes, shattering the almost unbearable silence.

"Clint and I... We met. And I realised that it must be getting close to the time that we all meet." Nat glances at Clint, who shoots back a slightly shaky smile. "I wanted you to know _me_ before that. We both did."

"You met? Outside the Scape?" Tony asks aghast. Bruce just stands, stunned, the watering can slipping between his slack fingers.

 

They all jump at the hollow bang it makes as it hits the ground.

 

As the other collect their bearings, Phil silently slips away. He curls up in his part on the dreamscape, inside a rickety hut he created with rotting wood and dead leaves, and vows not to dream anymore. He knew he would regret it. He always does.

This agony of being left behind never fades away.

It's time to let go.


	3. Chapter 3

Phil is thirty four, the youngest level 7 agent in SHIELD history, and a file with the name Clinton Francis Barton stamped across its binder was just dumped on his desk. A blurred - but identifiable - picture stapled in the corner.

**_SHEILD target level 2._ **

**_Eliminate on site._ **

 

* * *

 

It only takes him two weeks to find the third-world backstreet in which Clint is lying low.

The fact that he had an alternative source for information - his dreams - will not make it in the final mission report.

(Because even when he doesn't try to dream, titbits of information about his soulmates still gets through subconsciously).

He doesn't take a strike team with him.  
After everything they have been through, Fury trusts him enough to get the job done properly - even if that means going it alone.

But the first time he lays his eyes on Clint amongst the bustling marketplace crowd, he freezes.

Clint's strands of hair are shining like gold in the sunlight, and his eyes seem even bluer than in the dreamscape among the backdrop of colourful shop tapestries.

His gaze skims over where Phil stands, never focusing, and Phil's breath catches. ( _Not again, not again-_ )

But then his gaze swings back - instantly locking eyes with Phil and Phil feels his heart kick into overdrive.

And then Clint runs.

 _Shit_.

 

* * *

 

Phil chases Clint through the winding market place, jumping over barrels of spice and through shop tents of handmade trinkets.

Clint tries an array of tricks to try and lose Phil, but Phil knows him, has know him for a decade, knows the way Clint's body moves and even the way he strategises.

Clint quickly seems to realise that he isn't going to be able to outrun his tail and changes tactics. As smooth as a wave, Clint has turned on his heal and tackled Phil to the ground - but Phil has seen Clint's wrestling style firsthand. He blocks an elbow to the face, and the fist to the gut, managing to simultaneously flip their positions and get Clint pinned.

The fight is definitely weighted in Phil's favour, but Phil hesitates for one split second when he has an opening to subdue Clint.

_He's my soulmate. I can't hurt him. I love him I love him I love him-_

Clint has no such hesitations and a swift elbow to the nose is all it takes to loosen Phil's arms enough that he can scramble away.

Blood gushing from his nostrils and pain hardening his resolve, Phil reaches into the inner pocket of his dress-suit, removes his gun and shoots Clint in the meat of his thigh.

 

* * *

 

Natasha is next, only seven months later.

She is a much greater target - SHIELD priority level 1 - and Phil knows he won't be allowed to play it his way this time.  
Romanov is an all-or-nothing mission.  
Kill or be killed.

Idly Phil wonders what he deity he pissed off to suffer such a fate, twice.

  
Phil calls in a favour and Fury reluctantly pulls a few strings. Phil is granted a forty hour head-start on the three STRIKE teams to be deployed.

He takes Clint with him. Because Clint has been making a nuisance of himself ever since he somehow got wind of Nat's new target status within SHIELD ranks, and Phil's afraid that he might try to sabotage the STRIKE teams if he is left unsupervised.

  
Though they both work for SHEILD now, Phil and Clint rarely see each other. Phil is a level 7 agent who exclusively handles only agents level 5 and above, and Clint's only just finishing SHIELD's training and has yet to be bumped to active agent status.

While this is their first time working together, they manage to form a timid understanding. Phil doesn't ask about Clint's relationship with Natasha (as if he doesn't know) but he informally informs Clint that, secretly, they aren't here to kill her. In turn, Clint doesn't question Phil's authority over this mission.

Yeah, Phil knew that last part was doomed before they even left base. Clint was nothing if not a delinquent when it came to taking orders. It's an honest to God miracle he's survived this long in SHIELDs ranks.

Phill catches him trying to sneak away on the first night, passed Phil's lightly sleeping form on the couch of the safe house they are staying.

A sharp, "Bed, Barton." Is all it takes to have Clint scampering back into his allocated bedroom.

Phil doesn't dream that night. He thinks Clint probably didn't either.

Clint watches him warily the next morning, expecting Phil to either demand answers about last night or for Phil to just send him back to HQ for reprimand.  
When Phil does neither - rather he offers to make him a coffee - Clint slowly begins to relax.

That seems to be swing which breaks the ice, so to speak, because suddenly Clint does not shut up.

Now, Phil is already aware that if it were possible to talk underwater, and be eloquent about it, Clint and Tony would be first place contenders, but he has never experienced it first-hand.

Most of it is just jabber; words for the sake of words, and not for any sort of important communication. Like long descriptions about a dog Clint saw the other day, or why he thinks grapes taste better peeled.

Phil values the conversations, of course, how could he not? But he also knows the only reason Clint is talking is that he is deliberately trying to annoy him.

 _Good luck_ , is what Phil thinks in response to that.

  
It becomes some sort of competition between them.

Clint saying the most ridiculous things he can think of, and then justifying it with surprisingly articulate arguments, and Phil will just hum noncommittally in response. Maybe make a one word remark here or there.

Phil adores every moment of it. Of his attention. Of him.

They travel to Paris - because, unlike Clint, Natasha has standards even on death row and she knows how to blend in.

They're cutting it close; the STRIKE teams were deployed more than thirty hours ago, but they don't have the edge that Phil and Clint do.

Well, the edge that Clint has and Phil pretends not to have.  
Because now's definitely not the time to have that conversation - not when Nat's life hangs in the balance - so Phil just pretends to be ignorant and ignores how unsubtle Clint's hinting on where to look for Natasha is.

 _Only a soulmate could make this seem endearing_. Phil tries not to roll his eyes as Clint, very obviously and not at all adroit, attempts to convince Phil to let him leave one afternoon to 'get milk'.

Late last night in a dream, Clint'd organised to meet up with Natasha. He managed to reluctantly get a location out of her, though whether or not she is actually there is yet to be determined.

The other soulmates are aware of her situation and, surprisingly, Bruce seemed to be taking it the worst - almost making himself sick with anxiety. He doesn't trust the system that Phil represents, but Clint trusts Phil, and Nat trusts Clint, and Phil trusts SHIELD.

Phil dares to hope that it will be enough.

(He has dreamt more this passed few weeks that he has in years. Yet, the pain of being ignored aches just as strong as it did when he was fifteen.)

(He's also trying not to overthink that his soulmates are now aware of his existence, even if only as as a SHEILD lackey.)

  
"Clint."

The seriousness of Phil's tone makes instantly Clint look up, empty milk jug in one hand, struggling to get his shoe on with the other.

"I understand." Phil says, eyes boring into Clint's. "Go."

So many unsaid words pass between them in that moment, and suddenly Phil feels so much older than his thirty two years - a wearily sadness settling deep into his bones.

It's almost symbolic when Clint walks out that door to find Natasha, and Phil can't stop the feeling of abandonment from eating at his chest before he forces it down. It's ridiculous for him to feel this way; despite the pass few days they've spent together he has no right to Clint's person.

Clint returns four hours later with Natasha in tow. She stares at Phil with a blank face and untrusting eyes when he offers her a seat in the living room. She says nothing as she takes it.

He remembers those eyes, in a tiny fifteen year olds face the first time she entered the scape.

Phil excuses himself for the bathroom, shutting the door carefully behind him.  
He stares at his reflection in the mirror, hands roughly gripping the basin of the sink, _breath in._  
Phil doesn't splash his face with water the way he wishes to, as Natasha will know and he can't afford to show any weakness right now lest all hope of trust be lost, _breath out._

_Breath in, breath out._

Phil goes back to the lounge room.

"Hello. My name is Agent Phil Coulson and I work for the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division. You can call us SHEILD."

  

* * *

 

Clink comes to Phil's office, late at night, not long after Natasha has been released from SHEILDs custody -any and all charges against her person wiped clean- and is now a fully-fledged probationary asset.

"I forgive you." He says, and when Phil blinks at him blankly he elaborates, "for shooting me in the leg."

Phil carefully moves his paperwork to one side and says, with great sincereness, "Thank you, Barton. I will finally sleep untroubled again."

Clint laughs and it's beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is slowly progressing. Next chap is building friendships between Phil, Clint and Nat.
> 
> Also I've totally forgot what the title of this story means lmao.


	4. Chapter 4

For a man who had all but given up hope of meeting any of his soulmates, he spends a damn lot of time around two of them.

Natasha is wary of him, at first, and Phil doesn't have time to rectify that because he is too busy trying to get her charges dropped.  
And then suddenly he does have time; because with Natasha's newly decreed innocence came the agreement that Phil would become her permanent handler.

It's got Fury written _all_ over it.

They go on a few missions together - mostly low-level info retrievals at first. Then more dangerous ops as mission command begins to realise just how well they work together.

Phil understands Nat in the way only two people who grew up together could.

Natasha respects him. Or maybe she respects the image he has carefully cultivate to shield his most jagged edges.  
Phil's honestly not sure which one he would prefer it to be.

He takes a bullet meant for her in Prague, she stops a knife meant for him in Xi'an.  
He's the voice in her ear, guiding her through collapsing buildings and disabling bombs.

He still doesn't dream.

After a sixteen months of missions together Clint is assigned Phil as his permanent handler and they officially form Strike Team Delta.

They're the best Strike Team SHEILD has to offer, and they will continue to be for many years.

Working like a well-oiled machine, they rip across continents; sometimes leaving trails of destruction and other times leaving only rumours. They take the names and forms of many individuals, wield the weapons of a thousand years, save more lives than they take.

They are the epitome of what SHIELD represents.

 

* * *

 

Eight months after Delta was founded Phil's listening to Natasha snark at Clint over the coms, offering his own commentary sporadically, and in dawns on him that they're _friends._

They joke together and spend weeks living each other's pockets. They care about each others wellbeing beyond what is considered professional saftey.

Phil's gone and done the one thing he vowed not to do; _get involved._

The realisation hits him so hard that he is stunned dumb for several seconds.

"-il. Phil!"

Phil blinks back to reality at the tinny sound of Clint's voice coming from the coms and mentally berates himself for getting distracted. Distractions are fatal. He needs to be better than this.

Phil breaths out for two seconds, in for three. "Yes, Agent Barton?"

"You okay down there, space cadet? Need me to send help?" Clint teases.

Phil rolls his eyes, safe with the knowledge that Clint won't see it from his vantage point. Probably.

"Just contemplating all the ways I can flay you with a pen. Should I start with the left ball or the right ball? Decisions, decisions."

Natasha's chortle cuts across the com, along with the sounds of her incapacitating armed men with ease.

Natasha gets the intel and Clint shoots the mark. They complete another successful mission and parents everywhere can sleep lighter knowing that another child trafficker has been wiped off the Earth.

Later, Phil will have a mild meltdown in the safe-houses' ensuite bathroom.

(Mild perhaps not being the operative word.)

In the resulting calm, the eye of the storm, he'll decide it's time that _for once in his life_ he allows himself to have something good.  
The honour of their companionship is the next best thing to being an actual soulmate.

And he'll hope that when the subject of soulmates is breached - as it inevitably will - he'll have his life together enough to respond appropriately. Or just divert the conversation. Whichever.

Wishful thinking is the opposite of pragmatism and the pinnacle of optimism.

Not exactly Phil's usually style, but his hair line is prematurely receding and his doctor said he needs to be more positive.

 

* * *

 

Phil forgot to account for Natasha in his wishful thinking, which was a grave mistake. Because the first time the topic of soulmates briefly emerges, it couldn't have come at a less inopportune moment.

  
"Stop squirming."

"There is a bullet in my chest, Agent Romanov. I'm sure you can understand that it's a tad uncomfortable." Phil breathlessly replies, grit digging into his shoulder blades and fire in his lungs.

Natasha hums, tearing off her sweater and pressing it against the wound, hard. "This is the second time you have used your person to stop a bullet meant for me. You should be more responsible, if not for your own sake then for your dreammates."

Phil knows her well enough to recognise when she is fishing.

"Attempting to pry into my love life while I'm on my death bed." Phil huffs, the words burn to speak. "Decorum, Natasha."

"You are not going to die." She says forcefully, pressing her hands harder against his wound.  
Pain ricochets through the entirety of Phil's body, rippling outwards from the hole in his chest and then doubling back. An agonising feedback loop.  
He groans.

"Natasha," Phil wheezes. "If there was ever a time for you to be gentle, now would be that time."

Natasha leans over him, one hand braced on his wound as the other rises to stroke his hair. "Shut up."

 

* * *

 

Phil's thirty four and he lies bleeding on a filthy sidewalk in backwater Karnataka.

A woman with fire for hair and soul, who is but isn't his soulmate, tries to repay the life he just saved.

In retrospect, he wouldn't change a thing.

 

* * *

 

Phil doesn't die, obviously. Clint and the retrieval team arrive in time.

He loses five days, unconscious in ICU and then another month in recovery.  
Rehab takes nine weeks. He never regains full rotation in his left arm, but he's still a perfect shot and his hands never shake.

He's glad in a sick way, and it makes him feel horribly guilty.

Phil knows that now Nat has brought up the soulmate topic it's not going to remain dormant for very long unless he provides an explanation - or maybe even a secret wife; who truly knows what they are expecting - which Phil's not prepared to do. They've heard the array of rumours around SHEILD, and he can't fault them for being naturally curious.

But the longer he is unfit for active duty the less time he spends around Clint and Natasha. They can't ask him questions if they're never in the same room.

Phil knows it's stupid logic, but he's _scared_ and fear is never rational.

His chest aches and he feels so old these days. Too tired to remain outraged at the unfairness of it all; just weary and old.

 

* * *

 

"You're avoiding us."

Phil concentrates on gently placing the hand weights down, rolling his shoulder to get the ache out. "If I wanted to avoid you, you wouldn't be standing in front of me right now."

She looks at him, clearly unimpressed, and leaves the way she came.

 

* * *

 

"Tasha thinks you're avoiding us." Is the first thing that Clint announces after walking through the door to Phil's office.

"Did she put you up to this conversation as well?" Phil asks blandly, then cringes at the expression which fleetingly crosses Clint's face.

"I'm sorry... That was uncalled for." Phil sighs. "I'm sorry."

"I get it. Bullet wounds fuckin' hurt and it's not surprising that you've been a little... prickly, lately." Clint shrugs and plants his ass on the edge of Phil's desk, picking at the sticky notes.

"It's just-" Clint cuts himself off, scratching at a scab on his bicep where his arm guard digs. He's hunching inwards, like preparing for a blow, and Phil thinks it makes him seem very young.

_Fourteen and weary at the world._

Clint blurts out, "I think she's worried she did something wrong. Did she?"

  
Phil lowers his head and closes his eyes.

Trust Clint's intuition to be as precise as his arrows; hitting all of Phil's current insecurities with one question.

Because, did she do something wrong?  
Did they all?  
Maybe Phil's been looking at his soulmate issue wrong this whole time. Maybe _Phil_ isn't broken; maybe it's the others who are.

It's an awful predicament that has been plaguing his thoughts lately, causing him to be hostile towards those he loves.

"Coulson?" Clint asks tentative when he doesn't respond for several seconds.

"No." Phil shakes his head, feeling horrible for even thinking otherwise.  
"No, of course not."

 

* * *

 

Turns out Phil needn't have worried; it's over a year before the dreaded topic is readdressed. Clearly his team got the message the first time that Phil's not willing to talk.

And when it is readdressed, Clint's... very wasted. Perched precariously on the lip of an alcove in their current safehouse, legs dangling out the open window and over the bustling Sydney street far below.

It's the 20th anniversary of his parents death.

Phil respects that Clint has his own way of dealing with things, so he just sits next to him and silently offers support.

"Natasha's my soulmate." Clint blurts suddenly after hours of light conversation. The sun has long since set, but the breeze is still warm.

"I know." At Clint's look he adds, "You were never subtle."

"I take offence to that, Coulson. I'm a spy! I'm always subtle." He slurs the words and mangles the pronunciation of 'subtle' but Phil doesn't hold it against him.  
He's done remarkably well at holding his liquor, as most men his size would have passed out by now.  
Natasha wouldn't start slurring for another two pints, but she's Natasha and therefor ineligible as a comparison, despite her many fine qualities.

Phil places his own drink down and says, "Clint. As your handler it's my duty to know your weak spots - _all_ of your weak spots. The biggest one you have has always been Natasha... And you stare at her. All the time."

It's honestly only a slightly exaggerated version of the truth; no matter what universe - even ones where Phil had no idea what love looks like on Clint's face - he would always know what it means when Clint looks at Nat. The way his father looked at his mother. The way no one will ever look at him.

"Okay, okay! I'm a failure as an agent." Clint throws his arms out, almost knocking a half empty bottle over. "Do I at least get the privilege of bein' Natasha's weak spot?"

Phil doesn't want to outright deny it because that would only be partially correct, so he carefully says instead,  
"Natasha takes her weaknesses and turns them into her greatest strengths."

Clint contemplates that for all of thirty seconds before deciding it's acceptable and changes the conversation.

"What 'bout you, Agent stoic? Why's a charming man like you lackin' in the romance department?"

Phil sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "I'm sure you've heard the rumours around SHEILD."

"There are many rumours 'bout you, Phil. 'specially about your soulmate. They can't all be right." He hums, "Right?"

Here it is; the moment in which Phil could tell him everything. All the confusion and the self-loathing and the therapy, the dream-blocking and the lies.

But it's not really fair to Clint, is it? Clint didn't choose to represent a system which pegged Phil as an outsider from seven years old, unable to ask for help for fear of social ostracism.

(There are no historical records of one soulmate being invisible to the others, ever, and Phil very much doubts that's because it hasn't happened before.)

And even if he tells Clint, what good will that do?

There is no way to fix whatever is broken with Phil's soul (by God, has he tried), and Clint can't just _pretend_ that nothing is broken. If they can't interact in the dreamscape, then they aren't soulmates. End of.

Phil long ago realised that telling Clint or Natasha will either make them feel guilty for all the pain that they have inadvertent caused Phil, or make them feel awkward that Phil's been seemingly spying on the most intimate parts of their life.  
Either way would irreparably destroy their friendship.

No, Phil can't drag Clint down with his issues, especially while he's too drunk to properly consent to this conversation.

Only one of them has to suffer, and it's Phil's duty to make sure that it's him.

Phil swallows, hard.

"I don't dream."

Clint frowns and is silent for many moments before asking quietly, "Is that involuntarily or intentional?"

Phil looks away.

Damn Clint and his intuition, it's only ever been a hassle where Phil is concerned.

"It just is." Phil replies, not the truth but not exactly a lie either.

Silence reigns between them. When Phil glances back he sees that Clint's eyes have gone big and pained.

"That's so _sad_ , Phil. I- I couldn' do it... Get up every day, I mean, and know there is nothin' waitin' for me at the end."

Clint's brow crinkles, pity in his eyes and his heart on his sleeve.

 _That's so sad._ The words bounce around in Phil's head like an echo, looping over and over, drowning out noise from the street below.

Christ, even Clint thinks he's pathetic.

  
Then Clint sways forwards dangerously and Phil's heart leaps to his throat. His self-loathing is temporary take over by raw fear, but he shoves both down where they belong as he steadies his sharpshooter from plummeting fifteen meters.

He grasps Clint under the arms and lifts him off the ledge, letting go as soon as Clint is steady and upright on solid ground.

His hands burn from the heat of Clint's body.

"Come on, let's go lie down." Phil says, wrapping an arm lightly around Clint's waist because he's honestly worried that Clint won't make two steps on his own.

"You cuttin' me off, barkeep?" Clint slurs as Phil plucks the bottle out of his hand before it can spill all over the nice rug.

"It's well passed the bedtime for hawks."

"I thought hawks were nocturnal."

"No, diurnal."

Clint lets out a low, inquiring sound, and sways forwards. Phil tightens his arm before he can face drive, then takes most of his weight as they stumble to Clint's room.

Phil dumps Clint on his bed and removes his shoes, not bothering to coax him into pyjamas - or even just down to boxers - tonight. Clint won't stay awake long enough.

Clint snuffles into his pillow and says quietly, "You're a good man, Phil. You deserve better than whatcha' got."

Then he's out like a light.

As Phil watches Clint snore, his blond hair tousled in every direction just like when he was a wayward teenager, Phil can't help but completely disagree.

 

* * *

 

If Clint remembers their conversation, he never mentions it, though he loves telling people of the time that Agent Coulson let him get blackout drunk and almost fall eleven stories.

Phil remembers it.

_That's so sad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blaaa, I kinda hate this chapter. The formatting on computer is awful, and I don't do internal monologue or reasoning bc I suck at writing it. OMG and the AGES keep tripping me up! Is Clint too young? Is Phil too young? IDK.  
> I just hope that Phil's reasons for not wanting to tell Clint and Nat that they're soulmates doesn't sound completely ridiculous. 
> 
> This is basically just a filler chapter to show Phil gaining closer friendships with Nat and Clint. 
> 
> As you can see I've finally put a number to the chapters of this story. There will be nine + an epilogue. Next chapter will be based around Iron Man 1 and have lots of Tony in it. YAY WE ARE FINALY GETTING INTO THE CANNON BITS.
> 
> Also thank you for all the comments and Kudos and Bookmarks, your support is great~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello,  
> It is I.
> 
> Lady I-Wrote-The-Epilogue-Rather-Than-This-Chaper-Bc-I-Needed-The-Goddamn-Fluff-Already
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos. I can't believe almost 100 of you like this hyperspecific niche fic ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Phil Coulson is 39 and too damn old for Tony Stark to be pulling stunts like this.

 

"Kidnaped by the Ten Rings? Seriously?"

Fury raises one eyebrow and says flatly, "I'm always serious, Coulson."

Phil looks skyward for strength, "What's the STRIKE teams TOD?"

"There isn't one."

When Phil stares at him, incredulous, he adds, "The WSC won't authorise a civilian rescue in foreign territory unless there is evidence of foul play. Right now the Army has jurisdiction, seeing as they're the idiots who lost him."

"Nick." Phil reasons, "It's Tony Stark."

The son of a secret _SHIELD founder_. Protecting the Stark line is probably written into the original regs.

Fury isn't convinced. "Exactly, it's Tony Stark."

Both glare at each other wordlessly.

Phil breaks first. "I'm not going to be able to stop Agent Romanov and Barton from going after him." He warns.

And it's not just because they wouldn't listen to him if he tried.

"They personal friends of Stark, or something?"

Phil's sighs, wearily rubs his face.  
"Or something."

"You're keeping secrets from me, Phil."

It's not a question so Phil says nothing.

"Fine." Fury concedes. "Just do as much damage control as you can."

 

* * *

 

"We aren't being deployed." Phil says without preempt and slams the door behind him.

Clint looks dismayed, even Natasha, who is much better at hiding her tells, goes stiff at the news.

Phil slumps over to the boardroom table, looses his tie.  
"I know. It's shit, but SHIELD needs evidence that Stark has been set up before the World Security Council will authorise one."

"They could kill him." Clint says hotly.

Phil sighs, preparing himself to play the roll of the devils advocate. "They're not going to."

 _Not just yet._ He adds silently. _They need him for something._

God, Phil hopes they need him for something.

Nat watches him with her sharp eyes, "You don't know that for certain."

Phil throws down the tie and starts on his top buttons. "Enough certainty to not question Fury's decision. He says to wait six weeks unless something changes, then he'll override the WSC and authorise a deployment - as is protocol."

Clint slams his hands on the table, neither Phil or Natasha jump at the loud bang he creates.

"That's bullshit and you know it, Coulson! We all know how many ways someone can be tortured in a week - let alone six!"

"What do you expect me to do here Clint?" Phil snaps, temper getting the better of him. He's allowed this one discretion, for it's _Tony_ they're talking about. "Even if the WSC did give us the green light, it would still take more than a month to find where Stark's being kept. SHEILD has no idea where the Ten Rings current base-"

"We still have to try-" Clint cuts in.

"-and we have no idea what variety of weaponry is at their disposal-" Phil ignores his interruption.

"-Stark could be dead in a day-" Clint's voice begins to rise with each word.

"Both of you calm down." Natasha snaps, deadly and steady.  
They both shut up, turning away from each other in anger. Clint crosses his arms and folds inwards.

Natasha sighs, lays a hand on Clint's arm, over the guard he's wearing.  
They are both in full uniform, Phil notes, prepared to be deployed.

They must have been so sure they would be deployed; they didn't want to waste any time. Phil feels even more terrible. By doing what is expected of him, he's hurting his soulmates and himself.

(He loves his job; it gave him a purpose when he had none, a place of affiliation in a universe that rejected him on every level. But one of these days it's going to reduce everything he has to dust, and he knows it.)

"He's right, Clint." Natasha says. "There is several hundred miles of Kunar desert to scour, and Communications are saying that that mountains are causing satellite difficulties. It's going to take weeks, minimum, to even get a general location."

Phil can't feel even a bit satisfied that Natasha sided with him after he sees the way Clint's shoulders droop in defeat.

The silence is heavy with dread.

Phil's wondering if it would be too on the nose to ask them why they care so much about Tony. He really shouldn't be blindly going along with this, as it paints suspicion on himself.

Or maybe it adds a sprinkle of omniscient to his pragmatic persona. It could go either way at this point.

"Unless..." Clint breaks the silence and the seems to succumb to it, trailing off.

"Unless Stark gives off a signal." Natasha finishes flatly.

Her words seem to spur Clint. He sits up straighter, his expression smoothing into something much less grave than before.

"A signal we can use to identify his location." Clint adds.

That's..... That's something. It's unlikely, but it's more than the nothing they have now. If they can convince Stark to attempt to send off a flare or a thing of equivalence, SHIELD will need to be watching around the clock so they don't miss it, and they'll need a retrieval team on constant standby, but it's plausible. 

Hope begins to unfurl in Phil's chest.

"It might work." He offers hesitantly, and thats all it takes to have his Agents out of their seats.

Clint lingers momentarily at the door. "I'm sorry for yelling, Sir."

Phil gives him a half-smile. "Apology accepted. Go do what you have to."

 

* * *

 

Though they may not be able to find Tony in the real world, he will always be found in their dreams.

Phil's a little worried about the pattern which is developing here. Just once he would like to meet a soulmate due to chance and not because he deliberately sought to get them out of danger.

The normal way, the way it's supposed to be.

 

Phil allows himself to dream again.  
The dreamscape looks different, almost unrecognisable, from the last time he was here all those years ago. If it wasn't for the tree he might have even wondered if he's in the right Scape.

It's lush, full of life. Bruce's garden is overflowing with vegetables, and a vineyard near by is ripe for the picking. Flowers of all sorts are scattered across the grass, and cobble path winds around hedges and over brooks.

He doesn't have the time or the emotional capacity to ponder the changes.

The first night after the kidnapping Tony doesn't appear in the dreamscape. Nor the third night, or the sixth.

He expected this - reports say that Stark was in an explosion before the kidnapping and heavy trauma can lead to a lack of dreaming - but it's still incredibly unnerving.

Tony has been in every dream Phil has had since he was fifteen.

 

He appears on the eighth night.

But his appearance doesn't allow Phil any relief.

He looks awful. Which says a lot about how Tony must be feeling because the dreamscape reflects the soul, rather than the physical body.

In the scape people are the purest versions of themselves, untethered from human limitations; the blind can see, the deaf can hear, the paraplegic can run, people can creating things with shear force of will.

In the scape, Tony can barely stand without sway.

" _Tony._ " Bruce cries, and rushes to Tony's aid like Phil wishes he could.

"I won't stay on long." Tony pants, collapsing heavily on the grass. There are dark circles under his eyes and his hands are shaking violently. "They wake me up every hour. So I can't dream."

Phil winces. It's worse that he imagined.

Most nations outlawed any sort of torture through forced dream suppression after WWII, as its effects are... unprecedented, especially when it comes to destroying a person from the inside out. It's not the most gruesome torture, but arguably one of the most cruel.

Most people consider it inhumane to the point of sacrilege. A defamation of fate itself.  
Unable to be imagined.

SHIELD agents aren't even taught resistance against it, because the act is so taboo that they've never had a captured agent tortured this way.

Natasha crouches in front of him, pain in her eyes hardening to brutal conviction as she takes in Tony. She is less Natasha in this moment and more a weapon. "Tell us everything you can. Everything detail you know about where you are."

"It won't help." Tony shakes his head in despair. "They keep me in a cave underground, and I've only been allowed out once."

"We can get you!" Clint attempts to reason. "You just need to give us a signal-"

Tony just keeps shaking his head, too far gone in his own panic.

"I've got a plan. They want me to make a missile, but-" Tony harshly sucks in a breath, and lets it out slowly.

"I've got a plan." He says with conviction.

In the end Tony will not be swayed from his decision, despite Clint's pleading and Natasha's reasoning. The only help they have left to offer is knowledge.

Clint leads Bruce away as Natasha gives Tony a rundown on torture resilience. Tony mentions that waterboarding is a personal favourite of his captors, so that's where she starts.

(Phil's not even shocked to find that the Red Room taught her resilience against forced dream suppression.  
Sick fucks probably had a learn-by-experience policy.)

It's not ideal, none of this situation is, but it'll hopefully help him hold out for a little while longer. 

 

Tony offers them only this: "Keep watching."

 

* * *

 

Tony escapes.

And in the most flashy way possible because he's _Tony_.

Phil can't fault him for it even though he's been allocated clean up duty, which means debriefing Stark, which means _meeting Tony_.

He's going to go prematurely bald from all this stress.

 

The explosion was a nice touch.  
Not only did it eliminate the Ten Rings arsenal but the smoke could be seen for miles.

After all the weeks of stress, in the end it was almost too easy to find Tony Stark. Phil didn't even need to tip off the Army; as Colonel James Rhodes never gave up looking.

 

(There is a cave, somewhere in the Afghan mountains, that has Tony's blood soaked into the dirt. Phil tries not to think about it.)

 

* * *

 

Phil remembers, many years ago, how he wished he could go and find Tony Stark.

Damn is he glad that he didn't.

Don't get him wrong; he loves Tony, as he loves all his soulmates. But he doesn't love trying to tiptoe around Tony's abundant self-defence mechanisms, lest Tony respond like a truly egotistical prick.

(Phil crafted himself a mask of indifference and inconsequence to control situations, Tony scraped together one made of chaos and narcissism. Both are great facades, though Tony's has more cracks, if one cares to look closely.)

 

Phil firstly had tried to organise an interview through Stark Industries PR as to bring in Tony.

Phil's not expecting much, as everyone is lining up for the interview of a lifetime with the recently returned CEO, and, last Phil heard, Tony is refusing to give a single one.

He gets his interview. In seven months.

At that point, if it were any other situation and any other person, Phil would have Tony forcefully escorted to SHEILD for a debrief.

 _You mean kidnapped_ , Clint had unhelpfully chimes in when he _remorses the situation to them, senior agents don't complain, Natasha_.

Obviously it's an unacceptable path of action, ultimately because SHIELD needs to develop a bond of trust with Stark, but also because Phil's not the sort of inept monster who would kidnap a man who was just rescued from being kidnapped.

So, if Stark can't come to SHIELD then SHIELD will have to come to Stark, like Phil's some wet-behind-the-ears level five operative.

Great.

Phil swipes a champagne glass off a passing server tray, and downs half of it in a single swoop.

Stark was rumoured to not be arriving at tonight's SI Gala, and Phil's primary target was actually Ms. Potts, but from the commotion outside it sounds like Stark has indeed publicly appeared for the first time since his 'accident'.

So, slight change of plans. Phil figures he might as well just ask the man himself for a debrief. Surely it will be quicker than spending all night trying to charm Mrs Potts into scheduling a meeting in two-plus months time. And making good impression now will help their relations later.

Tony Stark sweeps into the function room like he owns the place. Impeccable suit and dark hair in arranged disarray.  
An outside observer would never guess what this man had undergone these past weeks; suffering on a scale most people cannot fathom.

Phil's eyes follow him as he effortlessly brushes off concerned well-wishers and not-so concerned businesses rivals, making straight for the bar where Phil is standing. His heart rate kicks up a notch, even though _its not supposed to fucking do that when he's only talking to civilians-_

"I'll have a scotch on the rocks." Tony mutters to the mixologist, tapping the marble bench.

Phil breath in and wrangles his courage. Tries to momentarily forget he's ever seen Tony Start before. Blanks several decades from his mind.

"Mr. Stark." He greets, "I'm Agent Coulson-"

Recognition sparks in Tony's eyes and he angles his body towards Phil, cutting him off. He's frowning, a little dip between his eyebrows that hasn't changed since he was eleven years old, and just like that Phil knows he's going to suffer this whole conversation.

"Oh yeah, yeah, the guy from the strategy-" Tony deliberately stumbles over the name. Phil knows that he knows exactly what SHIELD is, and has hacked their servers more than once, all because he wanted to checkup on Clint and Nat.

He bragged about how easy it was to Clint.

"Strategic Homeland Intervention and Logistics Division." Phil finishes, sipping his flute to stop words from bubbling up his throat and escaping his mouth.  
Even Senior Agents get nervous, occasionally. This is a very important conversation, and Tony's not just a civilian. Phil's allowed a little leeway. 

Tony nods. "Yeah, that. Quite a mouthful."

"I hear that a lot." Phil says on an exhale, causing the words to come out flatter than he intends.

Against the odds, Tony laughs.

"Look," Phil says. "I know that this must be a trying time for you, but we need to debrief you. There is still a lot of unanswered questions and time can be a factor with these things."

Not even half way through his speech Tony gets distracted by something, or someone, on the floor space in front of them. Phil flicks his gaze around discreetly to see what it might be and gets an eyeful of Ms. Potts' pale back.

Oh, of course.

Phil pushes on, knowing there is a very high change that Stark is just pretending to be distracted as to remove himself from this conversation. A defence mechanism; everyone already expects him to be an entitled prick who thinks with his dick, and doing nothing to dissuade the notion benefits him. Underestimation benefits him. If he isn't, well... Natasha will sort him.

"We need to put something on the books. How about the twenty fourth, seven pm at Stark Industries?"

"You got it." Tony agrees, not even glancing at Phil as he offers his hand. Phil stares at it for several seconds in consternation, unsure how their first conversation went wrong so quickly.

Still, he shakes the hand, suppressing a shiver as their palms touch.

_So this is how it feels to touch Tony Stark._

He's waited twenty four years for this moment, and-

Tony extracts his hand, indicating towards Ms. Potts as he places his drink on the bar behind him. "I'm gonna go talk to my assistant and we'll... make it a date."

Phil knows he's lying but lets him go.

It's a little painful (a lot painful) to be brushed off by a man who shaped Phil's existence more than his own family.

He's seen this man go through loss and grief and heartbreak; seen him break into pieces and then stick himself back together again though shear force of will.  
Tony Stark has been a constant presence in his life for decades, and in another universe that would mean _so much_.

Phil's waited twenty four years for a moment that means absolutely nothing in this one.

_That's so sad._

 

* * *

 

Tony built a second suit of armour.

And then he flew it into enemy territory, blacklisted as a no-fly zone, to blow up his own weapons that his own company sold to the people who kidnapped and tortured him.

 

Well... If nothing else, Phil's glad he has conformational proof for the WSC that Stark isn't double-dealing weapons under the table. Now he just needs proof that Stark Industries CFO Obadiah Stain is the one double-dealing and he can wrap this whole thing up.

Phil's awed by the armour - and Tony's genius in general - but this does mean more paperwork. And alibis. And coverups.

He's already begun putting plans in place for any eventualities that result in the armour becoming acknowledged as Stark property. The armour will be listed as a private bodyguard - exempting the US government as accountable for anything that occurs in foreign territory at the arsenal of the armour, and also keeping it out of the governments power hungry paws.  
It'll keep the World Security Council mostly off Tony's back, but the armour will have to remain low profile - out of the public eye.

So no blowing up things near reliable witnesses.

 

* * *

 

Seven pm on the twenty fourth comes and goes with Phil sitting in the lobby of Stark Industries.

Eight pm he's being handed a USB containing evidence of Stane's liaisons as he helps Ms. Potts escape the building unscathed.

Eight sixteen and he's breaking into Stark Industries R&D department to search for unauthorised weapons of mass destruction and arrest Obadiah Stane on suspicion of treason.

Eight twenty he's being chased by a giant metal suit of armour powered by Obadiah Stane who's motives are somewhat... indistinguishable. It seems he just really doesn't want to be arrested, go figure.

Luckily, Tony appears in his red and gold suit to distract Stane, giving Phil time to usher the straggling civilians out and call in backup.

Ms. Potts blows up the building before backup arrives, completely vaporising Stane in the process, but Phil can't ever fault her for it because that's so _badass_.

They're all a little beaten and bruised but they'll live.

This is not how Phil expected his night to go, such is the life of a Senior Agent. He's surprised in his inability to be surprised.

In other news, Stark tore up a damn highway. So much for low profile.

 

* * *

 

Five days later has Phil presenting Tony the alibi he's been working on for weeks.

He figures the whole body guard coverup would still work, even if the whole country knows about the armour- Iron Man, as it's being called - with it splashed across every newspaper, tabloid and gossip magazine.

"It's technically not Iron," Tony, ever the pedantic, tuts over a newspaper. "It's titanium alloy with - ouch!"

Ms Potts rips a butterfly bandage off his nose, leaving Phil to cut in to their ensuring bickering.

"Here's your alibi." He says, handing Tony a couple cards where his pre-planned speech is printed. "You were on your private yacht all weekend. We have forty statements from your guests to back it up."

Tony takes the cards and shuffles through them absentmindedly. Pepper dabs some foundation on his bruised cheek.

Tony frowns, tries hard to look unsettled as he asks, "What about Stane?"

"He took a vacation to see some interstate family members." Phil adjusts his left cuff as he speaks. It's not sitting correctly and he suspects it may have been ironed wrong. He'll have to talk to his dry cleaners. "Small planes have terrible safety ratings."

Tony nods, looking like he's steeling himself against the chaos which is about to come.

Phil doesn't envy him. Reporters are like vultures, but Tony Stark never shows them any signs of weakness.

 

* * *

 

Tony doesn't read the cards.

It's not like Phil didn't expect this, but he can't help but feel that in an alternate universe it would be the biggest mistake Stark ever makes.

Luckily this universe has Phil Coulson to act as mediator between Tony and the World Security Council, and every other corporate body that going to be coming out of the woodwork to take advantage.

Even if he's pissed at him for not sticking to the cards.

Fury can do the damn debrief, Phil's going home.

 

* * *

 

(Twenty four years for a halfhearted handshake and a handful of words.

He can't even pretend he expected much else.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have trouble writing this story around cannon, which is why this chapter took a bit longer than normal. I feel a bit like I'm being limited by what marvel has already presented to us, bc usually I just let the plot go where it goes, but now I have like guidelines and quotes to shove in the story.
> 
> The next chapter will be Fury's big week, which I expect will also take some time bc cannon, ugh.
> 
> Expect the angst to get worse before it gets better.
> 
> Edit 7/4/2018: Sorry the update is taking forever, I tend to lose all will to write when I'm studying bc I'm to busy dissociating from my assignment obligations and stress. I'm still here tho, and this story will be updated eventually.


End file.
